If
only once he'd bruise
his
shins, and wince ...
if
only once he'd smile as a man smiles
who knows, quite merrily, there is no hope ...
but no. He's out to keep his soul in shape–
to glow inside the rib-cage of a fish,
to sit on a pillar like a stork, to set
a velvet faction against one in
silk
and, wobbly-footed, like a dog in drag,
go tottering toward the knuckles of a pope.
John Malcolm Brinnin
SAILING OFF
If
I could pluck you this afternoon
From this bevy of pilgrims and executioners,
You too could lap the shore of that inner world
Of choice. Not that I care who you are,
For some will read this because they have to,
And some will find it among the onions
They are peeling inadvertently, and some
Will have the gist of it spat at them in time,
As
they yield, impaled upon a steering post.
These have I known. I was never concerned
With what they were, but with what they would become,
On a given afternoon, such as this.
To begin with I should tell you that my quest
For soil is at this very moment being
Disturbed by a young thing who does not care.
She is shaking a blanket so carelessly beside
My window. When we meet in the Qallway
